Serendipity
by AmourApricot
Summary: Clary Fray, who has been caged by the life of a home-schooled daughter, is sent to the affluent town of Brooklyn, New York, where she is to move in with her brother and his ever-so-charming roommate, both of whom she's never met. If she didn't know what it was like before, Clary is about to learn the complexity of living a "normal" teenage life. {ClaryXJace}
1. Sola Clarissa

**Sierra: Hmmmm...**

 **I've never written for The Mortal Instruments before.**

 **I do hope, at least, someone will enjoy this~**

* * *

 _ **Serendipity**_

 **Chapter 1**

* * *

 _Sola Clarissa_

"You're too goddamn overprotective!"

Jocelyn, who'se now white-knuckled hands finally released the red plaid flannel, stumbled back a few feet, as if she'd been hit by some unstopable force that didn't release. In her reel, I took the chance to gasp and inhale, as if I'd been underwater far too long, just now breaking the surface to breathe in the sweet fillment of oxygen. Her face looked stunned, as if this fact was unknown and I'd been the only one to inform her. This couldn't have been the first time I'd said that, right? Surely it had slipped passed my teeth and lips during some other outbreak, in a moment of fitful rage, when I'd been too blinded by anger to filter what I was screaming.

"Clarissa Idelene Fray," she gasped, gripping the table so hard I thought it might snap under her relentless pressure. I almost flinched. She only addressed me by my full name when the line of right and wrong had been breached and I'd been the one to step over it. "How _dare_ you curse at me. I am your _mother_! I birthed you, gave you your name, and loved and cared for you since your first breath. It's what I _do._ Are you still so naive to believe not all mothers feel this way?"

My fists clenched so tightly, nails digging into the smooth flesh as if they were sharp edged shovels. _No_ , I wanted to scream. But what could that do? What could I say? Did I even know? My lack of knowledge about the world beyond my mother was presented to me then, whipping me hard as if to remind me I hadn't a clue if she were right or wrong, if I were truly undeniably naive. I guessed, however, not.

"You don't GET IT!" My voice rose one high-pitched octave, and I felt that boiling rage inside of me, as if it were a boulder coursing through my body, wracking every sensitive nerve painfully harsh. Though I was wrong; she was a mother. She _did_ get it, but to admit to that would be to admit defeat. "How long do you honestly think you can keep me locked up in the so called "security" of this house?! I'm sixteen years old! I've lived long enough to be able to take care of myself, to earn an oportunity to at least go outside and meet someone that isn't _you_!"

Hurt flashed across her face, molding her stricken features further. I'll admit - even as I said it, seeing the pain registure through her hurt me, too. I couldn't help it, this unwanted sympathy I felt for her. But I couldn't ignore my anger, not now. Not when I felt as if I would explode if I didn't make my mother feel as bad as I possibly could.

"Is that how you feel? Is that why you snuck out of your bedroom last night, wandering the streets alone, trying to sneak into a _club_? A CLUB, Clary. The explicity of that action is unbearable! Do you know what it felt like, to get that call at two o'clock in the morning, from the police, exploiting your illicit actions?"

There she goes again; talking as if everything I do is such an unbearable mistake, that I can never do anything right. It felt, with each word, as if she were taking the knife of our relationship and stabbing me in the back, twisting and untwisting so many times, letting the ache of betrayal strike me down like lightning.

The familiarty of tears burned in the back of my eyes and a lump, forming slowly in the back of my throat, gradually got harder to swallow.

"Maybe I wouldn't have done that if you didn't keep me locked up in this goddamn house, not even letting me go to school, not letting me make friends, never allowing me the opportunity to live a life that didn't involve you. You're-" I broke off, realizing the entirety of what I was about to say, not caring anymore. She was hurting me, too. " _Suffocating_."

Jocelyn's eyes widened.

It wasn't the kind of widened that expressed excitement or joy, confusion, even. It wasn't shock, though, either. They widened with a certain furrow to her dark red eyebrows, a frown pulling at the edges of her lips, wrinkling her young face. She looked scarily enraged, misery swimming in her green eyes. Of all the times we've faught, this, I reckoned, was the first time her expression looked so menacing.

"Suffocating," she repeated, voice so low it came as almost a whisper. Her eyes locked with mine, though they fell quickly, her features unchanged. She looked as if she were focusing intently at me, though her eyes were glazed over, unwilling to flick back up to mine. I froze under her stare, unsure to continue or apologize, despite I meant it, with every fiber of my being.

"Yes," I breathed, unmoving. "Suffocating."

* * *

I bit my lip, hard. I shook my head so harshly I stumbled a bit to the side, which I was positive made me look utterly drunk to whoever else had decided to watch me from across the street. The recollection of our fight made a new-found anger bloom in my stomach, slow as a flower, and though slow, quite surely. My heart quickened in an attempt to not embarrass myself, for when I looked back at the house across the street, the few that had gathered around the lawn in luxurious looking lawn chairs inspected me with furrowed brows and confused expressions, as well as that all too familiar look of she's-horrifically-crazy strewn about each well-groomed face.

Regaining balance, I gripped the handle of my rolling luggage, hoisting myself up straight, trying to make it seem like a was a normal, civilized being. Though I'm sure one of them was about two seconds away from calling the cops to report an attempted break in by yours truly. That wasn't the case, but if it weren't me in my own situation, I would concoct the same thought.

I'd been standing outside the house for about an hour and a half, getting slightly more agitated with every agonizing minute that passed. Every so often I'd reopen the white piece of paper, which had only an address and a phone number, which was painfully useless. I had no phone to contact anyone with, thanks to my ever-so-protective mother, feeling if I had no friends I had no use for a cellular device. Which was harshly true. But despite, I knew I had the right address, because no other house had the exact digits written, unless the numbers were wrong on the paper, which I prayed to God they weren't. I'd hate to have been screaming at some random fellow's house for the past almost two hours, trying to capture the owners attention, going around back to the high fenced backyard, finding the gate locked, trying every other visible door, not being tall enough to reach the windows set higher in its frame.

I was beginning to think perhaps no one lived there at all, which was probably why the people across the street were busy looking so perplexed at me, as if I were truly some un-informed maniac. At first when I'd arrived, I was shocked. This stretch of street, this neighborhood that sat so close to others, was one of the finest, richest looking ones around. It looked as if only old, wealthy, retired folks could afford and inhabit each and every house (though the family across the street looked fresh enough in age, groomed to perfection and whatnot.) Every lawn was cleanly and perfectly cut, green as the hue was ever getting, every patch neatly furnished, houses even more so.

This particular house, which rose at least three feet from the ground on a cement block, which I assumed was a basement, was completely, utterly, plainly white. Though a perfect, blinding, unscarred white. The layers of siding overlapping the other were vibrantly so, the dark gray of the roof clashing noticeably against it. A stone pathway bled from the sidewalk, up to four large, crescent steps that led to the door, each step diminishing in size the higher they rose. A porch lay adjacent, dark gray just as the roof, large enough to pass for the lining of a bedroom. Lights were strung about each pillar upholstering the porch, and miniature looking streetlamps, designed as sidewalk lights, encompassed the bottom of the porch, as well as steps that dropped near the edge of the house.

The house with which I'd been standing/sitting in its lawn for an expansive period of time. No matter how hard I knocked or kicked on the intricately designed front door, nobody bothered answering. There was no driveway, I'd come to realize. In fact, none of the houses contained a driveway. In front, at least. An alley behind each block held all of the cars and garages, and with the time accumulated from my wait, I'd been back there more than once, hoping each time a car to this house's driveway would magically appear. It never did.

Eventually I just gave up, heaving all of my suitcases and luggage onto the perfectly polished and colored porch, and sat, for what was now, I'd imagine, forty-five minutes. I'd gotten up to stretch my legs, and that's when the remembrance of my mother and I's fight slapped me, hard in the face. I couldn't believe her, not really, at least. We fought _all the time_. It seemed impossible that by this point, neither of us had attempted killing the other, though on many occasions I was deathly tempted. However, I refused to think past that point in our conflict, for the events that followed landed me here.

Brooklyn, New York. It was quite a change from the uneventful town of Billings, Montana, where everything was empty and land and grass devoured the state like a starving human would devour a hamburger. Going from a small population of one-hundred-thousand to a booming two-point-four _million_ was quite the drastic change, considering I'd never been anywhere outside of Montana, never experienced real noise and the busy flow of an overpopulated city. Hell, I'd barely set foot in a school. My mother was in over her head, as was I. I was the one here, now, waiting. Waiting for my new "roommate" to arrive, let me in, let me share a living space. Waiting to be invited into the bustling life of a normal New Yorker, be introduced to my first ever high school, or school, in general, be in a town with people and events and socialism.

Waiting for a brother I've known existed but never met, to arrive at his impressive house, to let me into his life, _him._

I've waited not-so-patiently for Jonathan Morgenstern, my sibling.

I sighed, stretching my arm up, gripping that wrist with my other hand, pulling high, standing on my tiptoes. I was vaguely aware that my black tank top slid slightly up my stomach, exposing a few inches of skin, an action my mother would address as "inappropriate." I'd discarded my light green flannel, rolled at the sleeves, on one of the chairs on the porch due to the scorching heat of a blazing New York afternoon. The sun seemed to sink into my skin, burning me from inside out. I knew I was tanning, which was rich and rare, considering I'd never known any other ethnicity other than white to inhabit me.

I wondered what he looked like for the longest time, imagined meeting him, fabricated a fictional face to appease my curious mind. My mother, who left my father, Valentine, before I was old enough to remember, ever only gave me descriptions of Jonathan and Valentine, and never much else. She never explained why she left my dad, never showed me a picture of what either of them looked like, never gave me the slightest inclination of anything that pertained to them.

For the longest time, I convinced myself that's why she was the way she was, because she'd never accepted love, I guessed. Didn't have someone to make her happy.

I sighed again, let my arms fall, and just stood there, on the porch, examining the white boarderd curtained window that was carved into the outside of the house, the only window I could reach while standing on the porch, because I was eye-level with it. But a screen protected it, a screen I'd tried and failed to remove.

Across the street, the family seemed to be growing bigger, more and more people appearing out of nowhere, as if some party were being held. Their noise escalated at each person arriving. I tried drowning out there sound, singing lyrics from pop songs I'd remembered, since I didn't have a phone or iPod to play music off of.

After a while of yet more waiting, I pulled out my sketchbook from one of the bags of luggage; I'd remembered exactly which one I put it in, because it was my baby, holding many previous drawings I'd done from some spark of imagination. But when I sat down, pencil in hand, I found I couldn't draw a single thing. Not even a line, a start to something beautiful.

So I put it back, hid all the luggage somewhere along the edge of the house, and tried taking a walk. A risky move, but I was beyond restless, eager for something to do. I never got beyond rich looking neighborhoods and cleanness, though, because the wealthiness seemed to radiate off of every house, like heat might radiate off a piece of metal that's been in the sun for too long. When I configured the sun was burning through my light-wash boot-cut jeans too harshly, I headed back, surprisingly remembering the way I'd come. I headed back through the alley, though, to check if a car had arrived. Disappointed when nothing had changed, I went to the front of the house again. The smell of a barbecue drifted through the air, as elegant as the summer's slight breeze, and it was only then did I realize how famished I actually was.

It was the family across the street, who pulled a grill onto their porch, and were now cooking meaty items, letting the smell waft over to every other house in the neighborhood. With each inhale through my nose my stomach growled a bit, a warning that reprimanded if I didn't satisfy it soon, I'd be in trouble.

After some more of soaking up the heat of the sun, the hair at the back of my neck felt damp, due to how much hair I actually had, its length, its thickness. It fell down the length of my back like a waterfall, bright, bright red, brighter than I would have ever liked. So many times did I wish I could dye it, so the vibrant color could be tamed a bit, though my mother never allowed me to change my body. She thought its natural color was beautiful and, scolded me for not believing so, going into a lecture about how red-heads were becoming extinct, talking as if I were some kind of endangered animal. So all my life I lived with long, curly, thick, red hair, its abundance constantly annoying, tangling at every little thing I did.

I ran my hand through it, pushing it away from my face, letting it all fall behind my back.

As more time passed, I found I was beginning to get nervous. Outrageously nervous. What would Jonathan be like? Would I like him? Would he like me? Would we get along? The only other family member I'd lived with was my mother, and by no means did we exactly "get along." There's a certain exhileration in meeting someone you knew was real, though had never experienced before. Someone you've been told about all your life, never getting to talk, communicate, see. Eventually, the twist of nervousness in my stomach made me feel sick. I'd been nervous once I stepped on the plane, stepped off, rode a taxi here, waited. It settled a bit when I realized I was alone, though it was back now, engulfing me, making me shiver despite the heat of the sun.

My foot bounced restlessly, up, down, up down, fast, over my crossed legs. I gripped the arms of the chair tightly, inhaling and exhaling loudly, trying to calm myself. Without much success, I stood again, leafing an arm across my waist, placing my elbow against it, chewing anxiously on my thumb nail, pacing back and forth across the width of the porch.

 _Where are you? Where is ANYONE?_

Sighing, I realized my lack of something to do was only going to make this process significantly harder. I needed something to keep me occupied, to weave my scattered thoughts into something comprehensible. I stole down the stained-brown stairs of the porch, feeling my hair flop carelessly on my back. I craved for a hair-tie but knew they were in some unreachable crevice of one of my suitcases, and attempting to find one was not energy I was willing to expend. The grass tickled at my feet, soft and gentle, and surprisingly cool. I peered over the ridge of the house's exterior, spotting my suitcases. Trying not to look suspicious, I walked over, savoring the shade the house produced, as covering as an umbrella in the rain. Gripping the handles of each case tightly, I made a montage of walking each one to the front of the wooden gate entrapping the backyard, blocking it off. I stacked them like lego's, being careful to steady each full, almost bursting bag carefully before venturing to retrieve more.

With the last suitcase, which was my fourth one, I set it adjacent to the previous ones, a stool to boost my minimal height higher.

The fence was about six feet, maybe five something, but I had no indication of height. My slight figure wasn't really a shape to compare something to.

First, I stepped up onto the suitcase flat on the ground. I hoped nothing fragile was in it, hoped I wouldn't hear the ever-so-rewarding crackle of an item crunching or shattering beneath my weight. No sound reverberated. Silently I thanked lucky choices. Extending my legs, I boosted myself up onto the other suitcases, which were horrifically unstable, wobbling at any uneven weight set upon one side or the other. Somehow I managed, by taking a leap of faith and gripping the top of the wooden fence, grasping so hard I felt splinters briskly sink into my skin, but I'd take that pain over the thought of breaking a rib on the ground. Physically I breathed out, relieved.

Absently I wondered if this was a bad idea. This could, after all, really just be some strangers house as to which I was attempting to break into. Technically. It was only the backyard.

Screw it.

My breathing eradicated when my foot groped for leverage, which it found on the bulge of where the lock held the gate in place. Rearranging my hands by spreading them apart, I inhaled sharply and pulled up, dispensing a large amount of my arm strength. Lactic acid rushed through my veins, burning harshly like the boil of the sun above. When my stomach made contact with the top of the wood, I exhaled loudly and fervently, breathing hard shortly after. My position was quite compromising. My heart thumped loudly in my chest, pounding on the cage of my ribs so hard I thought it would burst free. The only fear driving it was the fear of falling off. Every grip I had was exceptionally strong, holding me steady wherever I positioned it despite the slight tremble of my figure.

I placed my right hand above the other on the top of the fence, and riskily threw one leg over, so half of my body dangled on one side, and half on the other. This is where the real fun came into play. How was I supposed to carry out the rest of the process?

I wiggled slightly, inching myself closer to the edge, and grunted loudly when I slipped marginally, grabbing another section of the fence. The roughness of the wood made easy friction against my hands, and I winced at the pain it caused.

My breath came in hot bursts, mind unsure of what to do next with my body-

"What do you think you're doing?" came the quirky, amused, surprised sound of a leveled male voice on some side of the gate. I gasped, unsure which way it had emanated. Whipping my head to the side, I only caught the blurring image of a stark boy, with blindingly bright hair that reflected the very light of the sun before I lost my grip completely.

I only had a fraction to think, a fraction for the terrified words _falling_ and _pain_ to scream in my head, before my body made contact with a grassy, slightly soft surface.

At first contact I grunted, all of the air expelling from me in less than an instant. Instantly pain lanced through me, hot and quick and unstoppable. My side felt as if it had been hit with a baseball bat, and my head snapped against the ground so quickly I wondered briefly if it had actually happened. I realized it had when a headache started to swirl in the space behind my temple, a constant, relentless pounding.

Moaning, I rocked to one side, and then suddenly coughed. It was too surprising to take control over, and I coughed and gasped and coughed some more, begging for oxygen to fill my lungs. Finally when my fit was over, the realization that someone was on the other side of the gate slapped me in the face, and I struggled to get it, stumbling a bit due to light-headedness. I fell into the gate, heart pounding even more dramatically in my chest. My clumsy fingers fumbled for the lock, forehead pressed sharply into the splintery wood of the gate. A sort of strangled gasp left me before the lock opened and the gate was suddenly falling open.

I fell with it, surprised, and stumbled back out into the side of the front yard. And then my suitcases were there, right in front of my line of stumble, and I fell, YET AGAIN, over them. Reflexively my hands shot out to catch me, but that was unneeded. They fell in a line, cushioning the impact, and this time I yelped a little as my body was cradled into the bed of my own suitcases.

 _You. Have got. TO BE KIDDING ME! You're such an idiot. You're such a careless, stupid, reckless, clueless, CLUMSY IDIOT CLARISSA FRAY! What in the entirety of this completely normal seeming planet is WRONG with you?! Are you incapable of normality?!_ I was so wrapped in scolding myself I didn't notice him, his shadowed features looming over me. His face was so strikingly close to mine I gathered he must have been kneeling. My heart was already beating as hard as it could, which was impossibly hard, that at this point it simply just stopped.

"Hi," I blurted. _What the hell? HI!? That's all you could produce? HI?!_

His brows were furrowed. They were so light they were hardly there at all, little streaks of heaven curving about his forehead. His mouth was parted, lips a very pale pink, sculpted and protruding from the shape of his face, which was narrow. His nose was chiseled with a tip sharp enough to cut. The darkness of his cheekbones stood out the most, most likely due to the shadows devouring his face. And then there were those eyes - those impossibly bright, bright, _bright_ green eyes. It didn't occur to me how eyes could be so green, so grassy. No one had eyes like that. No one but my mother.

And me.

"Jonathan," I breathed, inwardly hoping it was actually him, somewhat hoping it wasn't. I mean, I _did_ just try to break into his house, and possibly made the biggest fool of myself, what with falling and tripping of the sorts. Then again, he _did_ leave me waiting, all this time. He wasn't even there to pick me up at the airport like my mother had said he would be.

Abruptly my body shot up, fumbling over the suitcases to find even ground. My head throbbed, hand flying to lay against it.

" _You!_ " I accused, pointing a shaky finger as I wobbled and stumbled, much like a drunkard. I shut my eyes briefly, trying to stop the world from spinning. "YOU'RE LATE!" I yelled. "You're so late! Do you know how long I've been here? You weren't even at the airport! You were supposed to pick me up! Did you just magically _forget_ that? I waited you'know! But no, you weren't there, so I had to pay a _taxi driver_ , which isn't FREE, to drop me off at this-" I waved my hands frantically in the direction of the house- "frickin' mansion, which I didn't have the slightest clue as to if it were yours or _not_. So I just WAITED, sitting here, wondering for hours where you were! Then I tried getting in, because patience runs thin, FYI, and then all of a sudden you just _APPEAR_?! Out of nowhere?! I mean, WHAT THE HELL JONATHAN! WHERE WERE YOU?! WHAT WERE YOU DOING?! How could you just forget to pick me up?!" My voice was hysterical.

"Clarissa-"

"NO!" I cut off his alluring voice, which was gentle, but I desired answers. "Where were you?" I was surprised at how stern I was being, especially since those were the first sentences in his life he'd ever hear me say. The first impression I would ever mold into my brother, the first pop of a steady mood he'd see.

"Clarissa, I need you to please calm down-" He took a step towards me, and I immediately stepped back.

"Djubah!" I blurted, not really saying anything, just keeping distance between us. It registered that this _was_ him, Jonathan, my brother, my sibling. The one I'd been nervous to meet. A close proximity was not something I deemed to have. "Tell, me," I said slowly, eyes wide and wild and frantic, as well as my breathing.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, obviously suppressing a smirk that threatened to lift the corner of his mouth. "I'm sorry you've been here all this time, but your mom-"

"She's your mom too," I interrupted suddenly. Why would he address her as if she had only birthed me and not him?

He closed his eyes then opened them again, continuing as if I hadn't said anything, "She told me that you would be arriving at nine pm, so this is a surprise to me too. I didn't know your flight would be early. If you honestly want to know, I was out at the store, getting food for when you got here, in case you were hungry or anything. I'm sorry."

Food... While the subtle growl of my stomach was getting increasingly harder to suppress, it struck me that I had not even known him more than one minute yet he had already bothered to worry whether I would be in favor of my essential needs. "My flight wasn't early," I said, confused. Nine? My mom told him nine? My flight left at eight this morning, with the arrival time of three o'clock here in New York, where I was again transported to Manhattan. There was only a slight delay in Denver, but not long.

My head buzzed, be it from the impacts, the confusion, or the shock of meeting my brother, this resigned God that I'd never been permitted to learn about.

Confusion scrunched his features as well. "What?"

"I got here at three. I left early this morning. Are you sure she said nine?" I asked.

Fishing in the depths of his jeans, Jonathan produced a sleek black phone - an iPhone, judging by the apple on the back - and unlocked it, searching through something. Silently I cursed him and pouted out of jealousy. I wanted a phone.

Then there was a voice talking over it. Voicemail.

" _Hello, Jonathan. I see you're busy right now. I wanted to inform you that your sister, Clary, will be arriving tomorrow at around nine pm, unless flights get delayed or something else comes up. Or unless she..."_ There was a sniffle, and then it seemed Jocelyn regained herself, voice only slightly shaky over the speakers. " _Never mind. She'll be there. Please be there to pick her up. She gets hungry easily, too, so you should probably make sure she has food when she lands._ " She laughed a little breathlessly. _Oh mom._ " _She's cranky when she's hungry, so please feed her, and please, please take care of her. My darling girl... Thank you, Jonathan. I know I've never been a part of your life, and I'm sorry I've kept you from Clary, but I hope you two have a chance to bond. Thank you..."_

There was a linger, no beep indicating she had hung up, but finally there was. My heart constricted, and tears pricked my eyes. _Mom..._ It hadn't occurred to me I would miss her, at least not yet, but already I did.

"See?" Jonathan asked, sounding exasperated. "I didn't know you would be here so early. Do you hate me now?"

My eyebrows shot up, a questioning glance. "Hate you? No, I don't hate you... You just scared the hell out of me is all." There was something so...almost utterly disappointing about our final introduction that made the nervous twist in my stomach unravel in a pile of dull strings.

He didn't say anything. At least, not for a moment's pause. He was silent. Then, there was a snicker. He tried holding it back, I mean _really_ tried, the way he brought the back of his hand up to cover his mouth, which had been pulled into a smile. He laughed almost silently, and a surge of anger flared inside of me, and then, he just burst. Laughter spilled out of him like a waterfall, loud and genuine and undeniable. He doubled over, crossing his arms over his stomach, and my mouth gaped.

"Why are you _laughing_?!" I screeched. Seriously? Two minutes and he was already hysterical, falling into a fit of giggles and snickers. I was tempted to push him over.

"Y-you..you just...Pff haha!" He couldn't even talk. Embarrassment flushed me, and I didn't need a mirror to recognize the burn across my cheeks. I was blushing. I was definitely blushing.

Goddamnit!

I turned to the side, hiding my face, which scrunched with embarrassment and anger, behind the curtain of my bright red hair.

 _So much for sunny introductions and tours around live's. You've made quite the event of meeting your own brother._

"I'm sorry," Jonathan said, finally. "Are you okay? That fall sounded like it hurt..." This time, when he moved toward me, I didn't make much of a move to get away, though my body tensed at our closing proximity. Hesitantly, my head turned to look at him, blush draining from my face.

Eventually, between the tangle of my hair and the complex web of my thoughts (I wasn't sure which was worse) I exhaled a sigh that smoothed the frantic beat of my heart. It was lenghty, much needed, and impossibly exaggerated.

"I'm as okay as I think I'm getting at the moment," I replied, not a lie.

I had expected meeting my brother to be much more formal, breezy, smooth as warm honey spilling into a cup of tea. What I envisioned was a kind boy who toured me through his house, exploited the rules and secrets to break them, helped me to whatever need be. Of course, that would be such a mundane, cliche way to meet your brother, something I was impeccably used to in the hundreds of books I'd read. This... Was indeed a twist off the path, something interesting enough to make me wish it away, but there was no do-overs or second chances in becoming acquainted with a stranger. Briefly I considered the thought of amnesia, then physically shook my head, dismissing the twisted thought.

It started in the depth of my stomach, low and gurgling. Quickly it spiked into a growl of immense hunger, thrashing about in the emptiness of the bottomless pit that consumed me. Heat crawled over my skin, partially from embarrassment, partially from the humidity clothing me in a sheet of moisture. I shut my eyes tightly, feeling them crinkle in the crevice of my sockets, and bit my lip as they reopened, carefully studying Jonathan's face.

A smirk quirked the corner of his lips upward, toward his opalescent green orbs. "Hungry?" he asked, amused, perching an eyebrow above the other.

Without saying anything, a subtle nod bobbed my head, and my fingers raised to produce a millimeter of space between my index finger and thumb, silently saying "a little." My shoulders moved to an apologetic shrug.

Jonathan gave the first hint of a normal, boyish laugh, then swung a set of keys around his finger, the white lanyard wrapping around it easily.

"Why don't I take you out to dinner, then we can come home, I'll give you the grand tour, though I see you've become quite acquainted with my backyard, and I'll show you your room," he explained, catching me off guard.

"We hardly know each other, and you're already inviting me to dinner?" My stomach flipped, mind whirling. Jesus, did I just say that? I couldn't stop it - it fell out, stumbling past my lips so quickly I hardly had time to regret not biting back the words. Whether the situation called for sarcasm or not, I threw it out there like a ball on the baseball field.

Jonathan, however, seemed to make light of my remark. "Don't start thinking you're _that_ special, Fray."

Hm... I rolled that around in my head momentarily. _Fray..._ It didn't sound right out of his mouth. His tongue slipped while attempting it, and it seemed he was trying it out in his mind, too, by the look of anticipation strewn about his features when he gazed at me.

I shook my head.

We were just breaking the boundary of "Hi, I'm blah blah blah and my personality is like this." Far too early to make up presented nicknames.

Jonathan shrugged, impossibly light hair stringing and spindling in all sorts of manners, mainly gathering above the line of his translucent eyebrows.

He lead the path to his car while I strung along, stuck in a daze, mind bouncing between the cauliflower clouds high above. I just met him, now I'm entering a motorized vehicle with him. I mean, what if he's a crazy driver? I've heard there's far too many people who live in New York that don't know how to drive. While the thought's never made me car sick, there's a first for everything, and many of my firsts were dropping like bricks here in New York.

"Oh, by the way," Jonathan said, speaking up, "I have another roommate. I wouldn't worry too much, though. I mean, he's out of the house a lot, so I don't think he'll bother you much."

My mind snapped back, slapping me hard in the face, just as his words had. "A... Another guy?" I asked, voice small, incredulous. _That was never part of the deal. Living with two boys? Great._

He let a small chuckle breathe from his lips. "Yes, another guy. If you want, I'll tell him to leave you alone. I don't think he'll be too much of an invasion of your privacy though."

 _Don't think? Too much?_ I felt like fainting. "Who - what's his name?"

Jonathan clicked a button on his stilled keys, and his car, which had come into view quicker and fuller and more surprising than expected, beeped twice, the recognition of an unlocked vehicle. I was by no means good with cars, and I didn't have the first inclination as to where to begin deciphering one from the next, but this, by all knowledgeable standards, was obviously a truck. A ginormous, gleaming, pitch black truck with enough silver tracing the edges to run the world. It was blindingly dark, an odd combination, but the way the sun bounced light off the sides made the shadows it cast appear blacker against its charcoal hue.

"Jace," he said, and the word dropped in my brain once, rippling like a stone in a pond. "His name's Jace, but he won't be home tonight, so you won't have to meet him just yet."

It wasn't quite that I was concerned about, rather than the idea of being trapped in a living space with two kinds of the teenage male species. I grew up around a self-proclaimed clean freak, and boys were infamous for being the messiest of the human race. Especially _teenage_ boys. Messy, hormone-induced, uneducated, one-track-minded sex gods that were the literal depiction of every girl's fantasy-but-not.

I grabbed the handle and pulled, and it gave way, swinging heavily open as I stepped back to give the large door room. My height to the truck was comparing a tent to a mansion. There was nothing to do aside from step on the foot ledge and take a leap of faith inside. The hot leather burned against my thighs, an immediate sensation I silently cursed. Beside me, Jonathan entered the drivers seat with easy grace.

"Gee," I half-breathed, half-muttered, using every muscle in my arm to shut the door beside me. The interior was hot and humid, forcing air out of my lungs faster.

"I can't wait."

* * *

 **Sierra: Um, might I just point out that Billings doesn't actually have any clubs or anything, because we're that boring, but lets all erase that fact and have an imagination for a moment.**

 **Anyways, I doubt anyone will read this thing anyways, but there ya go. I will say that Clary is in for quite the unexpected surprise, for she might be seeing this so called Jace sooner than she realizes. Don't worry, if I actually continue this story, the next chapter won't be as boring. I can't say for its length though... I write excessively long chapters. I am incapable of publishing something short, do forgive me.**

 **But, until next we meet~**


	2. Golden Suite

**Sierra: Thank you for the encouraging reviews! And many follows and favorites. I hope to hear from some of you who favorited (and also followed) but didn't say anything! I'd love to hear what you think.**

 **Anyways... Sorry if this is another long chapter, but, yeahhh. Do enjoy~**

* * *

 _ **Serendipity**_

 **Chapter 2**

* * *

 _Golden Suite_

The clouds that had spotted the sky earlier were now growing heavy with color and abundance. I'd seen storms roll slowly across the horizon before, especially in the never ending sky of Montana, but this storm radiated relentlessness. It was too early to tell whether the water would release before skipping Brooklyn, but I guessed sooner or later we'd experience some precipitation. Though, that was just my guess staring out the cleanly wiped window of the restaurant. I was positive if I had been outside, I could tell by smell and feel whether it would rain soon. Despite facts, secretly I hoped it did, because rain set everything it cast itself upon in a sort of melancholic state that was peaceful to be in.

When my eyes flickered from their daze, lazily they drifted back to Jonathan, who was grasping his ice cold water which dripped on the outside of the glass, and staring.

Right at me.

"It looks like it's going to rain," I began awkwardly, craving some light conversation. After what seemed like some excruciating more moments of staring, he finally replied with: "Yes, it does. It probably will. We need all the rain we can get here in Brooklyn."

"Why do you say that?" I asked, curious, with a specific pique of my eyebrows. I was, incidentally, incapable of raising only one eyebrow, something most boys seemed to execute perfectly, almost mechanically.

Jonathon gave a clipped sigh, raising his glass to his pale lips, eyes flicking to the gray painted sky. After a sip, in which I heard the water spill past his throat with the exception of his gulp, he lowered the glass and began, "As you can see, Brooklyn's a fairly large place to live. With every single person polluting the atmosphere with the hot exhaust of their cars, we don't get as much rain as, say, Montana might. The city allows us to water our yards two times a week and no more to help preserve the water content. Most people have dirt and weeds for yards."

 _Oh... That's sad._ Montana received a heavy amount of rain during the warmer seasons, and even then an abundance of snow in the colder ones. It was usually always wet in Billings, part of the reason it was always so green and... Well, green. We weren't very color oriented.

"Well, despite your perfectly healthy yard, you're doing a fine job contributing to that factor," I replied, almost bitterly, but without the rancor.

Jonathan looked puzzled, though hurt dashed across his face, then disappeared as soon as it had come. "What do you mean?"

I nodded in the direction of his truck, which was parked on the other side of the sidewalk, which was parallel to the restaurant. "How much gas do you use for that thing? I bet it pollutes the air more than any other vehicle on the road," I said, tucking a stray strand of vibrant red hair behind my ear. It proved ineffective when it tumbled back out, due to the quantity that had already collected there. _Stupid hair. Damn you and your thickness._

My brother watched the strand as it slipped and waved slightly before settling against my cheek. The curl tickled against the sensitive skin there.

"That is... Irrelevant."

My lips quirked. "That's what I thought."

The familiar ring of footsteps overrode the flow of conversation around the room, and Miranda, our server (exploited by her name tag) appeared, holding a large circular tray in one hand, expertly carrying two platters atop. She stopped in front of our table, where she began, "Okay, we have one Fettuccini Alfredo and one Seafood Alfredo."

I gave a slight raise of my hand at her first words, and she placed the dish in front of me, and I felt it's heat more than I saw it. She dropped Jonathan's cuisine off at his side of the table, then neatly folded the worn black tray beneath her arm. "Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked, voice sweet, accent thick as syrup. I couldn't decipher what language laced her deep voice, but I guessed Russian, more than anything.

"No thank you," Jonathan and I said, simultaneously. I refrained from smiling, due to our impeccable ability to always be thinking the same thing at the same time. It showed more on the car ride here than anything.

"Enjoy, then," she finished politely, smiling. Blinding white teeth glared out behind her blood red lips. She was painfully beautiful, with a perfect tint to her dark skin, her black hair pinned in a bouquet of curls. Jealousy lanced through me. I would probably never look that beautiful, despite anything I could do to my hair or how much makeup I could cake on. With a breath she sauntered back in the direction with which she'd come. Creepily it seemed, I watched the muscles in her legs flex at each step as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

 _You should probably go on a run soon, Fray. Keep up shape._ Mentally I promised myself I'd go on a run later tonight, maybe. I didn't know the area all the well yet, save for the fact I could visit somewhere literally once and I would remember where it was and how to reach it.

"Bón appetìt," Jonathan cooed, voice unnervingly deep.

I reiterated, meeting his steely gaze with a leveled expression. His green eyes seemed to darken as the sky cluttered with clouds, orbs reflective as a mirror.

Unwrapping my fork from its bonds, I stabbed my Chicken Alfredo, twisting, raising a forkful to my mouth then consuming it. It tasted divine, though I presumed that was complementary of my hissing stomach. With each chew my busy tummy seemed to relax, and swollowing proved useful as the growls dissipated all together.

"This is delicious," I commented, pleased. I had never been to an _Olive Garden_ before, despite I was completely positive Billings had one. My mother was never much of a restaurant fanatic, preferring home cooked meals over fast food, refusing to shop at any other store aside from a fresh market. Which Billings had had one market, called Lucky's, where we obtained all of the ingredients for our meals. Though Jocelyn had made Alfredo before, I was glad Olive Garden provided a taste close yet far from home.

"I'm glad you like it," Jonathan said, a slight smile playing upon his lips. There was a mature vibe radiating from the gentle curve of his mouth when I glanced up from another forkful of pasta, and I wondered if he always looked like that. Mature and in control.

I chewed quickly, refusing to look less human and more animal. Placing my fork down, I slid my Strawberry Lemonade close to me, enclosing my lips over the straw. After three gulps I pushed it away, then started "So... What's this Jace person like?" Oddly enough, I think I enjoyed the flow of his name spill from my mouth, drip like honey from my tongue. It sounded smooth as velvet from my windpipes.

Jonathan released a breathy laugh, enjoying some Alfredo himself. "What's _Jace_ like? Such a broad question, Clarissa."

My brows furrowed as I scooped another bite of Alfredo onto my fork. "What do you mean "such a broad question?"" I bit down, licking the excess into my mouth.

"Well, I guess you could say he's not much different from your ordinary teenage boy, but I think perhaps that'd be lying." I listened intently, chewing quietly, swollowing even softer. "Jace is... Well, Jace. There's really no other way to describe him. He's out there." A smirk caught the corner of his lips as he talked, as he spooned another bite into his mouth.

Overall perplexed, I rolled over what he had just said in my mind. "Well, what do you mean... _Out there_?" I urged, condemning him to elaborate further. Was I going to start living with a maniac or something? My stomach flipped at the thought.

He seemed to sigh marginally, though not in the perspective of exhaust or annoyance. He placed his fork, which made a high pitched klink, against the porcelain platter. His pale, smooth hand traced the length of his neck, drawing up, fingers diving through the white pool of his hair. "Let's see.. Jace is someone who could honestly care less of what people thought about his actions. He makes a lot of his decisions based off of irrationality and excitement, never feeling remorse about anything he's capable of carrying out. I wouldn't necessarily say he's aggressive, but trust me sweet cheeks, you won't want to get on his bad side," he explained, grinning as he addressed me.

I tried drinking in the information, but my first and only impression of him was that he was an asshole. If we're being completely honest, though, something about his description intruiged me. I had less experience with guys than leaves on a tree in winter, so that was probably a portion of that emotion, but I felt as if to honestly know what this acclaimed Jace was like, I'd have to meet him. And since we'd soon be living together-

Oh, God. I forgot. How could I forget? I'm his soon to be acquaintance. Inadvertantly my fingers glided to my lips, tracing the plumpness of the bottom one, tugging a bit donwnward with it as well. My eyes glazed over, dazed, as I listened. I was seemingly unaware of a staring Jonathan. The reflexivity of worrying with my bottom lip consumed me, a bad habit I conceived when young. I didn't honestly know I was doing it until Jonathan asked: "What are you doing?", confusion evident by the bend of his eyebrows.

"Nothing," I blurted, too quickly. My fingers released my lip, tongue snaking out to lick it. "Um... Jace seems... Interesting." It was all words could muster between the hesitation of wonder.

Jonathan smiled, that mature quirk complementing his expression. "Perhaps he'll grow on you, as he does everyone else."

Silently I contemplated that, licking the soft roof of my mouth, debating whether it be an appropriate time to forget what we were even conversing about and indulge in some more Italian cuisine. So simply I nodded my head, slowly, softly, avoiding the disconfiguration of my twisting hair. I swallowed back words and began stuffing my mouth, attempting to avoid further conversation. Everything seemed awkward to talk about now, no matter the subject. I stuck to calming my belly, taking a bite of breadstick every so often, washing the welcomed taste deeper down my throat with a quenching sip of strawberry lemonade. Jonathan said nothing for some expansive period of time, though his pasta remained somewhat untouched below him.

In a sense, however, everything was still floating on the surface of my mind, never breaking and breaching below. It was still hard to fathom the unimaginable event that landed me in Brooklyn, where I was to stay without refusal and complaint. Even _if_ I wasn't so horrifically opposed to the idea of weaving space between my mother and I, this proved difficult to understand, to adapt to. It was like throwing a child in a pool and expecting them to scout the surface, _without_ drowning. For now, a hand still gripped me, refusing to let me dive. Just for a while longer. Just enough. Holding on until the thought was inevitable, and then I would sink, then independently drag myself back up in attempt to recreate a life that was never offered.

My brother cleared his throat softly, resounding as a cut purr. "So, Clarissa, tell me," he said, the dip in his lips reaching above. My stomach growled in frustration, impatience lacing my insides. "What is it that I should know about you?"

* * *

They rolled across the sky like impenetrable black smoke, roiling and thunderous and oh-so-intimidating. A smack of thunder screamed through the humidity of particles, the flush of light across the dark sky peering just before it. Wind howled, prominent as a wolf in the forest, shaking the trees as if they were but sticks protruding from the lightly cemented earth. The prickling crack of broken branches sung within this minor melody, wood snapping from wood, leaves trembling, dancing a new movement with each gust. Though the clouds looked thick enough to cut, dark enough to paint, nothing spilled from their reign across the world above. They were loud, terryfying as fears, yet unmistakably harmless as flies.

Withholding a grumble, I braced myself against the whip of wind as it sent my hair attacking me, feeling like knives across the sensitive flesh of my face. There was too much to attempt and control, too heavy of a burden to take on. Silently, I begged Jonathan to shove the key in faster, to hear the rewarding clicks of mechanisms and such to unravel, waiting for the twin of the sky door to open. The gray was as intimidating in a door as in a storm.

Jonathan, however, portrayed a much calmer sense of state, taking his grand time on the steps, making sure to delicitely fish the key out of his pocket, which was, give or take, a part of his lanyard he decided would fit best in his pocket and not his hands. Something about his tranquility made an inexplicable amount of questions bubble in my throat, though I suppressed the urge to ask as the snap of lightning flashed in my peripheral vision. A heavy, gutteral fear smashed against my stomach, nauseating as the flu. It cracked across the sky so brisk, insanely difficult to track. The largest bolt of electricity the sky could produce. My heart, which had beat as it should, jumped with a pulse and slammed against my chest, the feeling dripping down, down, down into the pit of my bravery. It melted, fast as ice. And a scream flew from my throat.

High-pitched, piercing as a needle, loud as the dark chorus of thunder that directed itself in the sky. Beside me, Jonathan jumped, startled, dropping his keys so they connected with the ground with four fast klinks.

"What's wrong?" he asked, loudly, grassy orbs wide with worry and perplexion. I hadn't meant to scream, hadn't meant to let the noise burst from my lungs into the noise filled air. But the fear swirled inside of me, faster than a tornado, damaging as a tsunami.

"I-I- it just-" Words were fleeting, a growing proximity between proper sentences and I. "Can you please just open the door?" I said after a gasp, physically feeling the breath expell from my lungs. My colossal fear of thunder and lightning overwhelmed me within an instant, squeezing me dry of any other emotion.

Jonathan lowered his torso, scrambling clumsily to retrieve his keys. They clashed obnoxiously on their dizzying flight upwards. My body shook against the firm side of the house, hands practically ripping the doorframe from its cemented position. They clutched so tightly on the metal outlining that my knuckles washed with white, fingers prickling with icy temperature. My eyes barely registered any picture through the tangled curtains of my lashes, but the rip of air and filling of a hole implied enough, and I didn't need to see the door open before I flung myself inside the black abyss beyond it.

But suddenly, instantaneously when my eyes could breathe and widen without watering, a certain darkness tinted with the deepest purple and shadiest blue engulfed the view before me, and I visioned but charcoal silhouettes of furniture and walls, edges of things here and there. Why was it so dark? Then it registered; the clouds outside were eerily so, casting everything below in their haunting shadows.

"Wait here, I'll grab your bags for you," Jonathan demanded, not unkindly. His breeze was the last I glimpsed before the screen door smashed into its frame; hard, fast, loud. My body remained stone still, unmoving. I would have investigated the premises further, however no light switches jumped out in the darkness, so I waited for him to collect my bags and enlist them inside. A part of me knew I should have jumped at the opportunity to help, but the thought dissipated at the flash of lightning and crack of thunder across the sky. My heart raced.

He returned quickly, making easy work of the heavy lifting and carrying of basically my entire life. When the bright outline of his figure appeared in the doorway, I opened it, and then glanced down, eyes brushing over the muscles that flexed and twitched in his arms as he hauled all four suitcases inside in one quick, inhuman movement. His left arm brushed against my torso on his venture past me, his body twisting remarkably to fit between the limited space of the entryway. I flattened myself against the door, which fell further open before being blocked by the wall behind it. I went with it, back colliding painfully with the unwelcome peroceline. A sharp pain ribboned through my spine, causing me to wince, but it eased, quick as it had come.

"Thank you," I said, but he as well. Again with the unison; but his voice slipped out thin and breathless, more of a grunt than my genuine gratitude. I bit my lip out of habit, repressing any urge to comment on our, again, scary ability to be thinking the same thing.

 _Even if you've never met him, you're still oddly alike. He really must be your brother._ Though I had no doubt he was; it was more a matter of finding the similarities in our builds and personalities, trying to connect one piece with the other, that concluded our kinship.

When Jonathan was out of doorshot, I peeled myself from the door and whipped around it, hastily throwing it into its frame. And then, with the door closed, any hint of wind ceased to exist, save for its whisper about the crevices if the house. The thump inside my chest swelled before dying down, the silence around us emanating blissful tranquility.

There were the familiar thumps of suitcases flopping to the floor, one of which rang louder the the others. I knew it must have been my books, seeing as how the baggage that held those was leading to be heaviest. Then within the beat of a moment too quick to catch, the flip of a switch snapped against the wall and lights illuminated the recently drab interior. My body whipped around, eyes grasping for sight. What lay before me stole a gasp from my lungs.

Everything was wooden; every single shade of the light brown hue compiled in the massive, expanse of space of what seemed to just be openness. The first that was there, in front of the entryway by the door, was the kitchen a few feet away, and a tall island, carved from a vibrant peach and yellow colored oak. Lengthy swivel chairs, legs and backs molded from iron with deep, blood red cushions circled the island, a thin slab of cloth the same color resting in the middle of the table, holding a barrage of different plants in the very center, next to an exotic fruit bowl. A low hanging chandelier, which held four lights, dangled from a dark brown chain from the beams in the ceiling.

Behind the island sat possibly the largest, darkest, glittering refrigerator, which held no adornments or magnets of the kind. Aside it was the wooden counter, smooth as silk, shiny as gold, which took a sharp turn from one wall to the next, creating a half square with its unique shape.

Inadvertently, I inched inside, not waiting for Jonathan to behold a grand tour. The entryway contained stone flooring, but the break between that and the kitchen clashed noticeably. As soon as I stepped from the shadows and into the illumination, the floor turned to wood, slippery and silky, darker brown than the clouds outside.

A granite sink slumped into the counter, and hanging above were cabinets, the same sanded color as the counter, lining the exact space as it's twin. A few items, such as bread loaves and a sunset painted pepper cookie jar sat on the counter.

There was nothing dividing the space between the living room and the kitchen; the kitchen's ceiling cut low, however, and upon entering the expansive, open living room, its ceiling scraped into the sky high above, four beams diving down from the very center, the highest point in the house, to create a pyramid shaped roof. A two way loft that led right to left, presumably two hallways that swept to different rooms and corners of the house stood atop a spiraling wooden staircase, which easily ascended ten feet steep.

In the living room, the color pattern remained consistent; a flaming red couch arched into a half square, luxurious and puffy looking, facing a slightly curved (which I found odd) silver, flat screen TV upholstered above a dry fireplace. My feet pulled my body further, slowly, delicately, hand floating softly at my side to trace the feel of the couch. Its fabric tickled at the tips, velvety, smooth as a feather. A ruby recliner sat parallel, a darkly stained paltry table next to it, holding an orange, red and yellow stained glass lamp. The warm mix of brown, orange and yellow conjured together in the rug which spilled the width of the floor, wide enough to cease any furniture from damaging the wooden floor. Four windows, two on each side of the living room, poured a dim light inside, gleaming off of anything reflective, such as the metallic shine of the TV that read SAMSUNG at the bottom, or the golden glint of the lined glass protecting the fireplace. The fireplace protruded from a ponderous wall of multicolored stones, all matching the warm scheme.

"What do you think?" Jonathan said suddenly, his voice breaking the fragile curtain of silence around us. I startled at his words, which bounced off of every wall in the house.

It took more than moments to attempt and conceive a reply; what could I say to all of this? It was all so grand and elegant and not teenage-boy-like at all. Nothing in any book I had ever read could have prepared me for the spotlessness of my brother's house. "It's... So big," I breathed, a laugh trimming my words. "Do you pay for this? Is this _your_ house? I hadn't expected this at all. I thought boys were supposed to live in rotten cesspools, not high class marketing."

A low chuckle drifted from his lips. "Valentine bought this house," he explained. "He bought it when he found out Jocelyn was pregnant with you. He wanted all of us to live together, to be brought up in an acceptable neighborhood, because he knew that's what she would have wanted. But, obviously, that didn't happen, seeing as she left him before he had the opportunity to propose this to her. So he raised me here instead, and Jocelyn moved to Montana to have you."

Loss of speech left me silent, though questions spun through my mind like a flurry of leaves, tilting and twirling rapidly, completely uncomprehensible. This all could have been my life, but it was not. "Why did she leave Valentine?" I asked, turning to look at Jonathan, expecting him to still be at his fixed spot in the kitchen, but I found myself stumbling back at our sudden proximity, tailbone digging into the edge of the couch. He was close enough to touch, though my the only thing my hand gripped was the couch behind me.

His bright green eyes lidded themselves, the whisp of a sigh blowing from his lips. "I don't know," he said dryly, and when his eyes opened, the darkness bounced from them back to clouds outside, but I studied them, closely, carefully, as if hoping to find his plethora of hidden emotions. "She told him why she did, but our father refused to tell me. He just kept saying "You wouldn't understand" at each and every one of my inquiries. So eventually I just gave up."

 _Why not? Why wouldn't we understand, mother? Valentine? Why can't I know?_ "She never told me either," I whispered, defeat and disappointment hopping from each syllable like an anxious frog.

"I didn't expect her to," Jonathan said matter-of-factly. I would have challenged his theory, if it weren't for the depth in the look he was tearing me open with. His eyes addressed me steadily, steely. They seemed more to look through me rather than at me. I inhaled as soft as I could, though a tremble still wracked the uneven flow of its water-like pour.

"Well... That's good, because she didn't," I blurted, averting my gaze from his deathly exposing look. Forcibly removing my body from the inflexible box of the couch, I pushed myself aside, easily missing his figure, out into the more open area of the living room. A wall that reached some length away hid underneath the hallways upstairs, a few doors freckling its nude colored paint job. A small alcove reached behind the space between the kitchen and this wall, pushing only a couple feet before stopping at a laughably small door. I guessed it led to a small supply or food closet, something of the like.

I pointed toward the lightly painted doors. "What's behind those?" I asked Jonathan.

He strode effortlessly across the slick wooden floor, stopping a few feet ahead of me, closer to the twisting staircase than anything. "That one-" he gestured to the one closest to the wall with the TV and fireplace, "is an exercise room. The other is a rec room, where dad works on all of his blueprints and designs, and where he sometimes builds small things to add in the house, or for other people-"

"Valentine is an architect?" I asked assumingly. I hadn't thought to filter the question before it came out, though it sounded an awful lot like that's what he did. Which, in a sense, was relatively impressive. The thought that he's the one that halfly contributed to my artistic affinity struck my mind, lingering like the smell of a long burned candle.

"Yes, he is a Residential architect. He works privately with wealthy soon-to-be homeowners; helps then create the house of their dreams and such. He and his crew are working on a home farther out in the country at the moment, though he says the area is difficult to build in, because the air is so moist, causing the ground to fall and crumble where they dig. Lots of rain out there, for some reason. Though, as a night job, he works as a bartender at the Pandemonium Club downtown."

I choked briefly on the air. "Wh-what?" I coughed, trying to pack the surprise down with my handy-dandy inward shovel. It was proving difficult. _Architect AND bartender? I wasn't expecting that... Is that how he affords this place? How can he? Does he get paid THAT much?_

"And he can afford all of this by doing those two jobs?" I asked, eyes shot wide in the direction of my brother.

"Clarissa," he said, all big-brotherly like, as he came back in my direction.

I tensed as the muscles under his shirt rippled like a stone in a pond, broad shoulders swaying left and right as he neared my tiny build. My eyes drifted to the exercise room. _You did this to him, didn't you? Way to make him all the more intimidating, even if he IS my brother._ Briefly I wondered if Valentine had the same build, if not larger, due only partially to the fact he must contain a little extra muscle for performing the activities he does. "Our father makes nearly two-hundred thousand dollars a year as a frequently hired architect, and earns an average of four-hundred dollars in tips each weeknight as a bartender, adding a few hundred more on weekends during busy hours. Granted, a bartender is not the most respectable job he could have, but he has no problem paying the bills or any additions he wishes to make to this house. I wouldn't doubt much of what he does, so in answer to your question, yes; he can afford all of this and more with his two jobs." His voice was so stern, so unimaginably rough that it made me consider if I'd said something so fundamentally wrong to ignite his sudden spark of defenssiveness and dominance.

My lips pursed, and my face formed to that of a dog that knew he had done something wrong and his owner had just scolded him for doing it. _Perhaps I should just keep my mouth shut until the tour's over._

When I chanced a sorry glance back at Jonathan, his eyes seemed to soften fractionally at the sight of my weakened posture. A sigh sifted from his mouth, soft as the earlier breeze, before the clouds raged and the wind ripped through the gentle summer day. "Can we go upstairs?" I asked, so quietly I feared it wasn't audible.

"Yes," Jonathan replied, surprisingly gentle. His voice had loosened and unraveled from its hostile state. Relief flooded me, cascading over every fiber of my being. _Oh, good, I haven't messed up._

 _Yet._

Inwardly I glared at my subconscious, reprimanding her inability to believe I would not royally screw _everything_ up.

Jonathan started towards the spindle of a staircase, grabbing the railing that spun up with it only once to fasten his pace, which was remarkably swift, his legs moving in that elegant agile manner as his feet bounded up each step with marshmallow softness. I, on the other hand, was not quite so exquisitely stunning at taking the stairs, nearly tripping at each turn, the twist of its angle perpetually dizzying. I was glad to fling myself off, onto the same sleek, leveled floor as downstairs, feeling only slightly lightheaded at the sudden change of up-up-up to flat.

Jonathan, with his mouth watering toned arm, pointed to the left side of the hall, though it wasn't much of a hall. I could perfectly see the living room and kitchen form up here, seeing as only a railing ran the length of the upstairs. There was no wall blocking the view of what lay below. It was all very... Open and expansive. Up here, however, the floor was much narrower, slimmer than the broad squareness of the layout downstairs. Though, murky light spilled in through three impossibly ginormous windows that sat exactly opposite the exit of the staircase. They were intricately boarded with a coiling pattern of white trim, not even the hint of a curtain to mask its hailing beauty. So much of the outside world was visible from these windows, which reached the length of the roof, save for its break at the peak of the pyramidal shaped ceiling.

"Mine and Jace's rooms are that way, as well as an extra bathroom." I stepped closer, peeking down the hall. Eventually a wall ran each side of the hallway, where the wall of the living room stood, creating an alcove of three doors, two parallel each other on each side of the hallway, and one at the very end of the far wall, presumably Jonathan's little cave, as I liked to label the room of boys. Who knew what lay beyond the door.

He kept on, turning right, walking the length of the right side of the hall, and I followed like a duckling to its mother into the second alcove where again, the wall to the kitchen verged upwards until it stopped at the high ceiling.

There was only one door this direction, one tall, dark chestnut door with a gleaming spherical handle, which he grabbed and twisted, and when the door fell open a sudden wave of relish and love crashed into me. "And this," he said, a smile taunting the edges of his mouth, "is your room."

Lethargically I brushed past him, stepping into my brand new, definitely dream-like room.

The walls, which were trimmed with white swirls, were a dark aquamarine hue, probably the most beautiful color I'd ever seen. Everything was a mix of matching colors of blue and green. The bed, which was noticeably larger than my one back home, stood on a pale frame, leaving space to admire the light tint of the wood flooring. A very pasty blue and white striped bedspread laid, tucked under the thick mattress, with a barrage of decorative pillows at the head, just in front of the anchor decorated headboard. What I found most loveable and unique was the veil that dripped from a small hook in the ceiling, spilling around the bed in a sheer coat of laced fabric. There was a cut in the veil, a place to enter into the bed, but it was such a lovely sight that instantly, despite anything else in the room, I knew I would have no problem sleeping in here.

"Wow," I gasped, smiling, venturing further. A light green dresser was placed against the wall next to the bed, and a tall, sleek black lamp towered in that corner, its cord disappearing behind the dresser. A small nightstand with but a tiny drawer relaxed on the right side of the bed, which leaned against the left wall. A pale coral tinted lampshade darkened the illumination of the pear shaped lamp that squat atop the nightstand. A set of windows fixed itself into the wall that was visible when once entering the room, with a couplet of translucent green curtains dropping in front. Next to the large window was a bare, white bookshelf, rising above half the length of the wall. On the right side of the wall, a door rose from the floor up, where a miniature version of the flatscreen downstairs was installed just to the right of it, high enough to be visible from the bed. On its right were two slim, skyscraping doors.

I went to them, grabbing the tiny oval handles with my thumb and index finger, and pulled. They rushed open outwards, away from each other, revealing a relatively large closet inside with a horizontal pole zipping below a shelf. The interior was painted the exact color of the dark aquamarine that engulfed the walls of the room itself. Silently I closed them, and turned, to see a smiling, expectant Jonathan.

"Well?" he asked, a noticeable sparkle in his eyes. "Do you like it?"

"Like it?" I reiterated, almost breathless. _This is mine. This is all mine!_

Refraining from jumping with girlish glee, I let the insistent pull ring my lips outward, a euphoric smile I was sure gave it away. "I _love_ it. This room is..." There were so many adjectives I could have, wanted to, use. None of them seemed close enough, descriptive enough, lovely enough. "Perfect."

"I'm glad," Jonathan chuckled airily from the doorway, still not stepping past the frame. "That other door-" He jerked his chin in the direction of the door closest to the bookshelf - "is your bathroom."

"I get my own bathroom?" I asked, quietly. I'd never held ownership of a room with its very own bathroom attached. Presumably, I had this due to lack of misunderstandings in any sort of boyish encounter when it came to showering, relieving... etc. So no one other of the male species could see me _unclothed._

Either the words flew past Jonathan or he didn't hear them, because I was not awarded a response. But I didn't need one; I'd be using the space soon enough. "This is all very...wonderful," I said, turning to walk to the door. "Thank you so much." And I didn't just say it to say it; I was genuinely grateful. He didn't _have_ to take me in, paint and model a room, give away extra space, extra money, extra food just so I had a place to live. It was kind of him, considering we'd never even met each other previous of today.

When I advanced toward the door, my brother made no move to retire from his blocking position, one leg wrapped loosely around the other, two arms braced firmly against the holed structure in the wall. The perfect human cage, though I didn't necessarily think he was trapping me in my own room.

Slowly, upon his lack of breakage, my feet came to a shuffling halt. I wasn't sure if I should ask him to move, attempt a slide past him, or move him myself. None seemed very appropriate - more as if they came across rude than anything else. My eyes poked his, a silent question. He hesitated, very un-moving, gaze effectively fixed in the soul of my eyes. There it was again; that exposing look, as if he could unwrap me with his glance alone.

And then, all of a sudden: "Well, shall we retrieve your luggage? I'll leave you space to unpack and such, and I'm sure you're very tired. Jet-lag and all. Tomorrow morning we can talk about what we're going to do. Sound good?" A smile made its way across his features, smooth, sly.

A rush of air brushed past my lips, hands sliding to rest in the back pockets of the jeans that had grown far too hot on me.

"Of course," I replied.

* * *

 _"Well if you think I'm so SUFFOCATING, then perhaps you shouldn't be here, you ungrateful daughter of mine. I've done everything in my life to try to make you happy! To save you from the cruel reality of the world, to shut you out from everything that could harm you!"_

 _I gasped, not wanting to believe what she'd just said. Ungrateful? What a false accusation! I've been nothing but grateful for her taking care of me, but there's a very fine line between caring and possessiveness! A very fine line indeed. A twinge of pain lanced through me, constricting at my heart. How could she say that to me? I'm her daughter!_

 _"You're supposed to love me!" I yelled, lashing my hands out, grasping at nothing but air. "Not control me! Not cage me! The only thing I need saved from is YOU!" I screamed, surprised at the vehemency in my voice. Though I barely noticed it over the raging wildfire of anger burning inside of me, turning my mother into a monster of evil, convincing me she was no good for me. Convincing me I was right and she was wrong. Briefly I wondered if the neighbors could hear, whether they would call the cops like they did once due to how extravagantly we'd been yelling at each other, for hours on end._

 _Jocelyn's mouth gaped, astonishment curving her features. "You think I don't love you, Clarissa? You think I don't LOVE you?!" The rise in her voice made me flinch back, but not cower._

 _I didn't say that, but now it's out in the open. "If you truly loved me you'd let me out of here, let me experience something," I said, desperately, even. "If you loved me you wouldn't keep me here, you'd trust me. That's what love is - trust. An emotion you don't contai-"_

 _With a surprising force I hadn't seen coming, my mothers hands slid, swift as a snake, over the smooth top of the wooden table, rising then landing on one of the chairs. Swiftly and out of the blue, she tugged at the back, and it slid willingly across the floor, peering out from under the table. With a brutality I didn't know my mother contained, she threw the chair across the kitchen floor, and I watched it, watched it every second of the way with wide eyes as it tumbled and skidded, exploding into the side of the fridge, breaking into fragments of legs and splinters. I almost choked on the spit I tried to swallow, afraid of what would happen if she used that brutality against me._

 _"I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU WOULD SAY THAT TO ME! I LOVE YOU WITH EVERYTHING THAT I AM!" she screamed, and I felt the magnitude of her voice in my throat, a metallic slip of a horrible taste, testing the boundaries of my uvula._

 _For a moment I didn't know what to say, couldn't think of anything. I was cemented to my spot on the floor, fear and anger stricken._

 _"I don't understand why you're so mad! What on this whole planet is wrong with you?!" I tried, and drunk in the sight of her grabbing for something else to throw._

 _No - what was she doing?!_

 _"Mom!" I screamed as she groped for the glass vase on the table; flowers, from our neighbor, swimming in the water inside of it. I lunged out, stumbling over my own feet, slipping and slamming into her; it was no use to save the vase, though. Her grip was so tight that when we both fell to the side, it tumbled from her grip and dived for the floor, though I didn't see it shatter into thousands of shards. I heard it, the horrible scream of shattering glass, ringing loud in my ears as my mother and I grunted against each other, flailing for a grip on something to keep us hoisted on our feet._

 _"Clarissa!"_

* * *

 _CRRAAACKSH!_

Instantly, my body startled awake, heart clapping aggressively against the cage of my chest. My eyes were wide, scoping, adjusting to the sea of darkness that washed the room of color.

 _What was that? What was that? What was that?_

The question raked my mind over and over and over and over until, with a trembling effort, I sat up ever so slightly, only the white washed veil focusing into view. It sounded so real, so utterly real, the familiar crack of fallen glass scratching together. But there was nothing in the room to have been broken, to have shattered. Right? There weren't any glass items on the shelves. So, then, what was that?

Forcing my body to relax, I tried smoothing my breath, but it was like trying to smooth a crumpled sheet of paper. Nearly impossible.

It must have just been the dream. That's all it was. Why had that dream interrupted such peaceful sleep? Furthermore, why was I still _remembering_? Why was I still recalling our fight? My mind wouldn't abandon the thought, but I wouldn't let it entertain it either. Quickly, I rushed to the end of my bed, poking my feet out of the veil, feeling the floor graze the tips of my toes ever so gently. I pressed down, exiting through the slip of open fabric, reaching to pull the beaded chain of the small table lamp. Its light burst in a flash of color, washing the room with a fluorescent glow, bright enough to momentarily blind my sleepy eyes.

Through the silence, the tender patter of rain clicked against the windows, a mellow sound. I went to it, pulling lightly on the curtains, admiring the drizzle, the way the street sparkled with moisture against the orange glow of the street posts. Letting them fall back, I retreated to my bed, pulling up on the veil so I could sit on the edge. My eyes danced over the time on my tiny, old-school alarm clock, which I was gifted with on my tenth birthday.

 _3:42._ God, what was I doing awake at three forty two in the morning? My body was jittering with a frightened energy, as if I had had a nightmare and wouldn't allow myself back to the world of dreams and sleep. My mind was busy fabricating some fictional scenario as to what the crash could have been, despite I tired my hardest to convince myself it was just the shock from my dream. But at the simple, alarming idea that it could have been real, my mouth's moisture dissipated as if never there, too dry to lick wet.

Resigning, I sighed, standing from my slouched position. Ringlets of tangled hair dropped between the lines of my vision. Impatiently I drew them back, throwing my hair behind my back, willing it to stay. I opened the door, padding across the floor, descending the stairs with an effort to obtain that marshmallow grace Jonathan had. It was not pitch black in the landscape before me, because the royal windows let in the subtle dribble of gray light through its cracks, though I still had to finger my way through the darkness that met me at the bottom.

My feet memorized their way through to the kitchen, eyes only grasping at the silhouettes of furniture. Once there, my hands groped through the blackness, opening cabinets at will, searching for a cup. I hadn't learned where the cups were kept, making the process significantly harder. Each time I opened a cabinet, dissappointment clothed me like a glove when my hands traced over nothing but canned foods and bags of chips and the like. Relief finally cleared me when my fingers slid over the glassy edge of an object. I withdrew, cylinder in hand and gently lidded the cupboard. Scuffling to the sink, I turned the knob, letting the water run into the glass as I stared at the tiled wall. When water poured over my hand, I churned the faucet off, scolding myself for not paying attention.

 _Pit._

My body tensed. Was that a noise? No, it couldn't have been. Jonathan was asleep... _It must have just been the rain._

I raised the glass to my lips, gulping its contents which hydrated my mouth wonderfully.

 _Pit. Pit._

I stopped mid-gulp as my heart began its upbeat pace.

That... Was definitely the identical noise. Too loud to be the rain, too dry. But as my eyes scanned the darkness, they ran across nothing unfamiliar or unusual. _What was that?_

 _Pit. Pit. Pit. Pit, pit, pit, pit._

Gradually, my hands lowered the cup, the bottom making mild contact with the counter, fingers releasing the cold edges, unwrapping hesitantly.

 _Pit, pit._

 _Oh God._

They were footsteps.

But how? Jonathan was definitely, surely, sound asleep. It was almost four in the morning... Who wouldn't be? Save for me and my unwelcome dreams.

 _Or... Or it could be an intruder._ What? No... No, no, no. That couldn't have been it. It just - it couldn't have. The house was very secure indeed. Locks and all. But..

 _Pit.. Creaaaaaak. Pit._ The screeching wail of a door opening. Footstep. _Click._ A door closing. It sounded as if it were reverberating from upstairs. As if, perhaps, maybe it were Jonathan.

For a moment, only for a moment, did I feel a slight hint of relief. But it was gone, so harshly, so willing, as my mind raked through several reasons as to what I was hearing. The footsteps sounded... _Wet._ As if the person taking steps across the floor had been outside. In the rain. The only place moisture could have possibly materialized from.

 _Oh, God. Oh God oh God oh God._ It just _couldn't_ have been a burglar, or an intruder, or a _murderer._ It just couldn't! That didn't happen to innocent people in reality. Something you only saw occasionally on the news. Right? _RIGHT?_

But my heart was betraying me, as a shadow as pitch as coal loomed from the dirty light upstairs. It moved, as if not fazed by anything. As if it were familiar with its surroundings. The obscurity of its shape seemed to loosen as it turned, and momentarily I lost it as it carelessly meandered down the stairs, a slight cough breaking from its lungs. A deep, slight cough.

A man's cough.

A man's cough that sounded too... _Different_ to be Jonathan's. Too deep.

My heart leaped.

The silence that worked its way around the person's footsteps left far too much room for the fleeting patter of my erratic heart to pound in my ears. My breath - Oh, God, my breath. I couldn't hold it in enough, couldn't seal it from lilting in and out of my parted lips. My fingers dug into the counter behind me, so harsh I barely felt the tickle of my loose, flowy tank top against the bare backs of my hands.

The figure wasn't Jonathan's, I concluded upon further inspection as it neared me at an alarming rate. Its shoulders were too broad, too muscular even in the blackness around us. Its hair curled and licked out more, body all around too contrasting with Jonathan's. This person moved too fluidly, too easily, gracefully. Nothing like Jonathan's short, hard movements.

And then - suddenly - the figure stopped, and -

 _Oh, God. He see's me._

Instinctively, without realizing I could do it, without realizing my body wasn't completely paralyzed with fear to move at all, my hand clutched wildly for the cup, finding it, grasping it, and stepping forward, I hurtled it into the air. Its flight was short, with an abundant amount of clear aquatic fluid splashing against anything and everything. A thud resounded when it hit the person, a grunt escaping his confused lips, then there was the all too familiar scream of splintering glass as it exploded loudly against the wood floor.

And then, everything seemed to happen in a flurry of movement and gasping.

My body shot forward into a dead sprint, hurtling myself around the island, the only target: Jonathan's room. But I didn't reach quite past the edge of the kitchen. A hand grabbed me. By the wrist.

My heart shrieked with fear, and I fretted I would be sick with the feeling. Panic twisted at my insides. _He's going to kill me_ , I thought irrationally. When I was yanked back, forced to fall in the - let's say man's - direction, a hand raised levelly, as if to swat at me.

"Who the _hell-_ "

His voice crackled with rage, so deep, so husky. My eyes widened in the unrelenting darkness, and found my throat was too tight, too closed to produce any sort of sound; not even a gasp of fear.

Without thinking, body seeming to react on its own fast impulse, I wracked my full weight sharply and severely against his, lifting my knee as concentrated as I could. I couldn't see, couldn't even think, but was rewarded the sound of his growl of pain as my knee slapped cruelly against his groin. His grip loosened marginally as his stomach doubled into itself, and I wrenched my wrist away, feeling the burn from his grip lace the width of my arm.

I tripped and stumbled into a hasty retreat, heading again for the stairs. But the man was after me again, growling with frustration, as if, perhaps, he was more angry at what I'd done to him than anything else. I felt the vibration of his body lapse against the floor when his hand shot and clamped around my ankle, and I fell, so briskly, forward into the floor, hands smacking against the wood in a pitiful brace. My mouth opened in pain, the tingle of it pinching at my hands and knees, where a bruise would now likely form.

I kicked out violently with both feet, as surprising as I could, attempting to snip at his head or something. My body flipped onto its back, the friction of his hand against my ankle blazing with smoldering heat. I kicked at his arm, and he gasped, and let go. I crab-walked back. My hands and bare ankles pounded against the ground.

I rolled the the side, leaping for the fireplace. Surely there was wood in there. Or rocks. _Something_ I could use as a weapon.

I held back every urge to scream or gasp or make any sound in hopes the intruder would think I was a guy. Not someone he could so easily undermine and take advantage of.

"Stop!" he yelled, and I hoped, hoped so much, Jonathan heard it and woke from is slumber to come and help, because the fear in the pit of my stomach ate me up like a wild storm. Every limb of mine trembled with the effort to keep moving, to fight back.

My body surged toward to fireplace. I clung to the granite that encased its upholstering, and flung the glass doors open. My hand shot inside as the man got up and urged toward me, taunting, frightening. A log of wood was all I had time to grab before the deathly shadow flung down on me.

I lashed out. The wood cracked against what I thought was his head. He tumbled to the side, a noise of surprise and pain shooting from his mouth. I struck again, impacting his side. He made a somewhat... Odd noise. And it sounded, just as slurred, just as mushy as his other words had.

Hastily I crawled into the square shape the furniture made, perhaps hoping to hide in their shadows.

The carpet was soft against my legs and hands, allowing me to crawl faster, as to not slip so much on the sleek wood floors. When my head hit the couch (or what I thought was the couch) I crouched, huddled, and waited, only briefly. Perhaps for Jonathan to come rushing down. Perhaps for the man to strike again. And in the wait, I failed to notice he had gone missing from his doubled-over place by the fireplace.

 _Where is he?! No- No no no. Where the he-_

And arms were on me, twisting in the spill of my tangled hair, and the man seemed to gasp. He flipped over the couch I lay against and pulled me up. My legs lifted, and I had not much energy left. Hair ripped from my skull, and for the first time in everything, I made the noise that gave it away.

I gasped, and moaned in pain as I tumbled sideways, hitting a table with my rib cage. It sounded so feminine, that there was no hope left in hiding it.

"JONATHAN!" The scream tore from my throat, ripping into the hot breath filled air.

The man seemed to stop, halt, in a moment of surprise or shock. Galantly, I took the opportunity, and flung myself at his unguarded position. That was when I realized, as if I had failed to feel it before, that he sported no shirt over his torso. It was but smooth, hard skin that I came in contact with. We both fell, only but a breathless groan brushing past his lips. Gravity forced me into him as he hit the floor, and my hands reached to stop me from fully slamming against him. But there was only so much I could grope for in the darkness, and my hands scooped frantically under what seemed like -

 _A TOWEL?_

Bare leg met my hasty hands, and then, it wasn't so much leg I was bracing myself against. All it took was a simple brush.

A simple feel of what was underneath, and this time, I screamed so girlishly and shocked and repulsed that I flew up and back, withdrawing my tainted hands.

 _Oh my God. Did I really just TOUCH that?! WHAT THE LITERAL-_

I grunted and gasped as the air washed from my lungs, heels hitting against the plushness of a chair. My body swooped down with the curvature of the chair to catch me. My hair fell all over my face and vision - a bright veil of red. Hard gasps leaked in and out of my lungs, as if I couldn't draw enough air or push enough out. My heart beat against my rib cage, where pain bloomed like a flower from the force of the table. It contributed to my lack of air.

Then, with such a sudden force and surprise, a garish incandescent light flowered from above, raining down over the darkness. My eyes lidded themselves due to the burn of the illumination's effect.

"Clarissa?" It was Jonathan's inquisitive voice, both startled and worried. It barely drifted into my ears, seeing as how my harsh breathing was the only thing I could clearly hear. I was vaguely aware of the gasping boy in front of me.

My eyes finally opened.

And holy God, did they widen at what they saw.

It wasn't so much of a man, as I labeled him. A boy - my age, seemingly. It had occurred to me correctly that the only thing clothing his pearly, tinted body was a pitch black towel, wrapped studiously around his waist. His back was propped up against the edge of the couch, arms lax at his perfect sides. Muscle corded through his legs, up his waist, a little 'v' cresting about his lower stomach, which was smooth and toned and not really flat. His arms pulsed with the heat of a moment, the subtle outline of veins stripping along his forearm. Long, elegant, smooth looking fingers webbed out from his palms. Then there was that face - Oh, dear holy Lord in heaven, that face. High, curving cheekbones melted lavishly into a beautiful plain of sculpted, parted lips and a chiseled nose that ran a smooth, straight line down the center of his face. He had a jawline that could have cut glass, so graceful with its cutting shape. He had the most golden eyes I'd ever seen on a human being, surely to vibrant and glistening to be human at all. Above were cleanly cut eyebrows, molded to a shape that complemented his beautiful features. A mop of bright, rich hair, which I noticed was actually quite wet, twirled and fell on his forehead, curling around his ears, licking up in the most exotic of fashions. And those eyes, beautiful and glistening, half lidded with what seemed exhaustion and amusement and fascination were locked.

Right on me.

My breath, despite itself, caught.

 _Holy freaking hell. This - this GOD was what I was attempting to damage just two minutes ago?_ He looked as if he could have fallen straight from heaven itself.

And me, stupid, inconsiderate, irrational me, had just attempted to wipe him from the house.

 _Jesus Christ, Clarissa. You truly win the award for most CUNNING WAY TO INTRODUCE YOURSELF TO PEOPLE. CONGRATULATIONS IDIOT!_

Only then did it magically occur to me.

It drifted so breathlessly, so filled with apologeticness and praise and embarrassment from my too-big-for-me lips.

"Jace."

"What in the _world_ is going on?" asked Jonathan, struck by the scene before him. Meanwhile Jace's eyes widened at the sound of his name flowing from my lips. But it didn't take him long to process the situation.

"Oh, dear me Jonathan," he said, and his voice came, thick as honey, deep as the ocean, pantie-dropping as Ian Somerhalder. "This probably looks far worse than it is. You see, what I assume is your sister, here, nearly killed me but moments ago as I was just a normal being, minding my business." His tone seemed... Lilting, slurred a bit. Sarcasm ribboned through that voice of his. "I was unaware she was here already. Did you plan on telling me, Jonathan? Oh, I suppose you thought when I met her I could swoon her out of violence, huh. Well, I probably could, if the lights hadn't been _so_ dimmed. Romantic enough, though I don't think she got the hint." A smirk strung his mouth.

 _Wait... What is he rambling on about. Is he... DRUNK?_

"Jonathan said you weren't supposed to be here tonight," I blurted, which quickly strung Jace's eyes right back to me. A shocking, perplexing heat warmed my cheeks. "I thought... I didn't know..."

"He _wasn't_ supposed to be here tonight. Jace, pardon your, um... Situation," said Jonathan, with a hand to his cheek, pinky playing with his bottom lip. Jace glanced down at himself, one leg laying flat as a pancake on the carpet, the other bent upwards, towel open and exposing.

Jace's smirk seemed to tweak but more upwards. "Oh, it's nothing you've never experienced. I'm sure Clarissa here doesn't mind." He turned to me from looking at Jonathan. "Do you, sweet cheeks? Are you swooning yet? See, Jonathan, she likes it. Her cheeks could challenge a tomato."

They burned even brighter than before. _What is WRONG with him?_

Jonathan released a sigh. "Jace, I don't really think my sister needs to be seeing that-"

"Oh, no," Jace interrupted, mischief evident in his tone. "It's quite alright. She's already felt it. I've never met a girl so forthcoming, before, Jonathan. You have _quite_ the sibling here, you'know?" He laughed a bit.

My brother's wide, puzzled eyes struck me with a hard look. "No - I-I didn't mean to! I fell!" I defended, starting to rise from the chair.

"Yeah, yeah, that's what they all say. You don't have to ask, sweet cheeks. You just go right ahead and do as you please, I won't mind," snickered Jace, and I turned a face flaming with red, stark with anger towards him. How _dare_ he speak like that. Such a beautiful face ruined by sarcastic remarks.

"In your dreams," I snapped, slitting my eyes with an effort. It was hard to be mad at such a God as him, but somehow I found it in me. "I could only assume how much it looks after I _jammed my knee against it._ " Venom dripped from each word. I whipped to face Jonathan. "Some roommate you have, Jonathan. Drunk out of his mind and manner-less." I held the tainted hand with the other, feeling repulsed by the feel of that against it. "If you don't _mind_ ," I said, marching from the living room to the bottom of the stairs. "I'm going to go disinfect my hand now. A _warning_ of him would have at least been a little nice," I reprimanded.

"Clarissa," Jonathan said, pinched and annoyed. "I didn't _know_."

"Neither did I."

It was the last thing I allowed myself to say before bounding up the staircase. The last thing I heard was Jonathan's resigned sigh, then his blurred conversation with Jace before I entered my room and slammed the door, feeling so much more embarrassed than I should have. Humiliated, even.

Damn that Jace and his drunk demeanor, and his stunning looks for catching me off guard and making me flush the color of my stupid hair.

That grip, that grip I had tried to keep on me so I wouldn't be washed away let go, then. I was on my own in this world now, this brand new world. My body took a dive in the water.

It was up to me to find my way up.

* * *

 **Sierra: Ugh, dear me. Sorry that ending seems so rushed. I'm already at 10,000 something words and I don't really want to bore you with more. But, anyways. Please let me know what you thought! There's probably eight billion errors in this, too, since good 'ol FanFiction decided to get rid of spellcheck and grammar errors and such. I tried fixing what I found was wrong. I could so desperately use a Beta...**

 **But I do hope everyone enjoyed... Let me know c:**

 **Arigotou~**


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